28 Years Later
by Spindleshanking
Summary: It was amazing how quickly a simple plan could go completely to hell. Centuries of meticulous planning and patience all came tumbling down like a house of cards. All it took was a few seconds' impulse by one well-meaning lunatic. There was no countermeasure to bottle and store against insanity. They were all going to die here and it was all his fault. (ZOMBIE AU)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my partner-in-crime's baby. I'm simply, well, betaing for her! :D

* * *

It was amazing how quickly a simple plan could go completely to hell.

Decades, _centuries _of meticulous planning, of careful manipulation and patience all came tumbling down at his feet like a poorly built house of cards. All it took, he thought, was a few seconds' impulse by one well-meaning lunatic. There was no way to plan for that. No countermeasure to bottle and store against insanity.

They were all going to die here and it was all his fault.

—

The day had started like any of the thousands of identical autumn days before it; the sun rose, pale and watery, already half hidden by clouds. People began to emerge, one by one—the baker unlocking the doors to his shop and flipping on the 'Open' sign to tempt the morning commuters, the florist, bleary eyed and groggy, checking his morning shipment, the D.A., still in his robe and slippers, walking down his drive to get the mail. Like a clockwork model winding up, the town of Storybrooke slowly came to life.

Streetlights wink out of life one by one just as the first lights appear behind curtained windows. The first cars crept out onto the roads soon after dawn, carrying the earliest risers—those doctors and shopkeepers and politicians—to work.

The puppets all know their roles, the patterns long-ingrained.

At the local bed and breakfast a girl in a short skirt is trying to slip inside the back door, her red heels clutched in one hand so as not to make a sound. As always, she is met by her grandmother's disapproving glare as she reaches the back stairs.

A man in a tweed jacket passes by while walking his dog, an umbrella hooked over one arm in case of morning drizzle that never comes. He shakes his head and sighs as the shouting drifts out onto the street.

The center of town is the fastest to awaken. Shops are opened and pedestrians braving the morning chill begin to fill the sidewalks. Not long afterwards children emerged, bundled up against the lingering chill by overanxious mothers, heading to school. They pass in one large, unruly hoard by the local diner, where the first intrepid customers sit waiting for coffee.

They're used to the wait. Just like every other day, the owner and her granddaughter, who has traded her skirt and heels for an apron, were busy arguing in the kitchen.

Unfortunately, the signs that the rest of this day was not going to be like every other day in Storybrooke go largely unnoticed.

—

An old widow named Mrs. Holmes is washing the dishes when she notices that her neighbor's front door is hanging open. She considers calling the police again, but after what happened last time she decides to mind her own business. If anyone deserves to be robbed it is Mr. Gold, she thinks, although Heaven help the poor soul desperate enough to try it.

—

Nancy has worked as a secretary in the mayor's office for as long as she can remember, and never in all that time has she known Mayor Mills to be a minute late. Regina was one of those viciously punctual people for whom 'early' is 'on time' and 'on time' is 'late'. Being one of those people for whom 'late' was 'better than never', Nancy had been forcibly reminded of this more than once. Way more than once. So when the clock on her desk reads 9:15 and there's still no sign of Madame Mayor, she's considering asking the Sheriff to start dragging the harbor.

Before she can screw up the courage to actually do anything, Trisha from the central planning office pokes her head around the corner.

"Hey, wanna grab a cup of coffee before the witch gets in?"

"It's weird she's late," Nancy mutters, eyeing the phone. "You think I should call someone?"

"What, because her highness is fifteen minutes late? Maybe her broom is in the shop. Come on, we better hurry."

When the phone rings ten minutes later, there's no one there to answer it.

—

Marco is bent over in his workshop, applying a final coat of varnish to a particularly nice antique bookshelf he's been refinishing in his spare time-a surprise for Archie, for his office. His friend always seems to have too many books and nowhere to keep them.

As he turns tidy up he catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

There is a man just beyond the chain-link fence, watching him, with his hands tangled in the links. It's no one he knows. Marco gets an impression of torn dark clothes and large white eyes staring at him, and he is not an anxious man, but even so, he jumps. The can of varnish slips out of his hands, clattering to the floor of his garage and sloshing varnish out across the cement.

He turns to offer the stranger a few choice words—

There is no one there.

Marco rubs his eyes and directs those few choice words to himself before grabbing a rag off the workbench and bending down to mop up the mess.

He doesn't hear the slow footsteps that come up behind him.

—

A while later, Leroy tugs on the door of Mr. Gold's pawn shop and is surprised to find it locked. He looks from his watch to the door, with its sign definitely turned to 'Closed', to the town clock, which confirms his watch's assertion that it is nearly noon on a weekday. He cups his hands around his eyes and presses his nose against the glass, but the inside of the shop is dark and deserted.

Leroy knows that Gold has never taken a sick day or closed up early in his life, and that there is definitely something fishy about this.

He also knows that there are about fifty things he'd rather do with the money in his wallet besides pay Gold, and how many opportunities like this does a man get?

With an uncharacteristic feeling like this day might not be so bad after all, Leroy continues on his way to work with a spring in his step and a tuneless whistle on his lips. Maybe if he's really lucky the old bastard's died and he won't have to pay him back at all.

_—_

_5:26 pm_

They were holed up like scared rabbits in the boarded-up town library—the few of them that were left alive, anyway—while outside, the quiet little town of Storybrooke descended into chaos around them.

They had found some folding tables stacked in a supply closet and Emma and Doctor Hopper had set to work using them to strengthen the barricades on the windows and doors. Emma had shed her jacket on the floor to reveal a t-shirt covered with blood and what looked like bits of brain matter. In the corner by the children's fiction Mary Margaret was sobbing quietly, baby Alexandra bundled up in her arms. She had arrived last to their little party, clutching the baby tight to her chest and unable to speak without breaking down in tears. Both woman and child were splattered with blood, though neither of them appeared to be injured.

When Emma had asked her about Ashley and Sean, Mary Margaret just shook her head and sobbed.

At the one remaining table Mr. Gold sat, lips pursed in irritation, as he scrubbed at the blood and gore encrusting the handle of his cane with a handkerchief. No one had asked about it and he hadn't offered an explanation.

The only other sound, besides Mary Margaret's stifled crying and Emma's terse instructions, was the occasional thump of a book hitting the floor and Henry's quiet muttering from somewhere in the stacks as he tore through the shelves looking for answers. "It just doesn't make sense. This wasn't in the book…"

Everyone flinched and fell silent as a shotgun blast sounded nearby.

The silence dragged on, nobody daring to move or breath, but there were no more shots. Emma was the first to recover, dragging Archie's attention back from where he had frozen. "Hey, look at me. We need something to hold these tables in place. This isn't going to hold for long if whatever those things are try to get in here."

"Right. Right, um…" Archie glanced around the room unseeing, blinking myopically without his glasses.

"We're in a library," Gold chimed in hoarsely after several seconds of listening to the man flounder. They both stared at him as though he'd gone mad. He cleared his dry throat and tried again, "Bookshelves. Clear the bookshelves and push them against the wall."

"Right. Good idea," even now she sounded guarded, as though she were unsure if, by moving the bookshelves, she wasn't playing right into some Machiavellian scheme of his. As if he needed another reason to want the windows barricaded beyond the desire not to be torn to shreds and eaten.

Any other day he might have been amused. Today it was giving him a headache.

"Help me move these," she said to Archie.

Everyone jumped again when the door to the stairwell banged open.

"Upstairs is clear," Regina said, striding into the room, unslinging the Sheriff's shotgun, and setting it down on the table with businesslike efficiency. Out of the uniformly dirty, bruised, bloodstained lot of them, she somehow managed to look pristine, down to the sharp creases in her pants. "There was one of them on the roof of the hardware store, but I took care of it." She glanced around and a single tight note of panic crept into her voice, "Henry?"

"I'm right here. I'm fine," he drawled, poking his head out from around the bookshelf.

"This isn't a game, get out here. Stay where one of us can see you."

"How many of them are out there?" Archie asked, pausing in shifting one of the larger bookshelves.

"About two dozen on the street just outside, but I could see more moving further out. Luckily, they don't seem to have noticed we're in here."

"What- what's going on?" he asked helplessly.

"That's a good question," she said.

If Gold noticed the way her eyes were burning a hole in the side of his head, he ignored it.

"I want to check the basement—make sure nothing can get in down there," Regina paused. "Gold, why don't you come help me?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Archie_

"I guess Marco's running a little late today, huh?" Ruby pouted, leaning over the counter to refill Dr. Hopper's coffee mug, when he checked his watch for the fifth time.

"I guess so," he muttered, tapping the glass. He wasn't exactly sure what tapping it was supposed to fix, but that's what you always saw people do.

Nothing happened. The hands stayed stubbornly fixed on 11:45.

At least it gave him an excuse to keep his eyes resolutely fixed anywhere other than the view down her blouse that their positions offered.

It was strange though, Archie thought. Marco wasn't always the most punctual guy, but he usually called if he was going to be more than a few minutes late. He and Archie had been meeting at Granny's for lunch at the same time every Tuesday afternoon for-well, for as long as he could remember. It wasn't something either one of them would have just forgotten.

"I hope nothing's happened." Archie frowned.

"I'm sure he's okay," Ruby offered, comfortingly, propping her elbows on the counter. "He's probably just caught up with something."

She was right. He was probably just worrying over nothing. Marco had gotten caught up on a job and lost track of the time, nothing more than that.

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Archie shot one last look around. The diner was empty, just him and Ruby, which was also strange for a weekday morning. Granny's didn't really get crowded, but he couldn't remember ever being the only person here.

Something about this just feels wrong.

"I guess I'll see you next week, then," he says, somewhat at a loss for what to do with his afternoon now.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Ruby says, waving him off when he reaches for his wallet. She smiles, "On the house. Just tell Marco I missed my best customer when you see him."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to get in trouble—"

"Absolutely. Consider it good karma. Granny won't mind," she leaned in conspiratorially, "I think she kind of hopes I'll start seeing you."

Archie's mind froze for a second and he stared, uncomprehending, before Ruby seemed to realize what she'd said. "For therapy! She hopes I'll see you for therapy," she added quickly, her cheeks turning faintly pink under all that makeup. He'd never seen Ruby blush before. "Wow, sorry. Bad joke."

"Right, right, of course," Archie forces a laugh, hoping his voice doesn't sound as awkward he feels. Of course that's what she meant.

He busies himself with gathering up his coat and umbrella while she clears away the mug and coffee pot. Neither of them is able to look at the other.

As soon as Ruby's back is turned he slips a five onto the counter and hurries for the door.

He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and dials Marco's number without looking, setting off in the general direction of his office while it rings.

Ruby is a lovely young woman—of course she is. And he'd have to be crazy not to have noticed that she's one of the prettiest, sweetest girls in town. (Even if he thinks it's a shame that she hides how beautiful she is under all that makeup.) Still, in all the years that he's been coming to Granny's, they'd never been anything more than friends.

Archie tells himself firmly to put it out of his mind.

When the phone cuts to voicemail he stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

Marco always answers his phone in the afternoons. He uses the number for work and can never remember how to access the voicemail.

"Hey, um, it's me," he stammers a few seconds after the phone beeps, "Just… just wondering where you were. Guess I'll just see you later? … bye."

He stands there alone in the middle of the street for a minute, glancing up and down the empty sidewalk. Archie is a man who tries to follow his instincts, and right now they're telling him that something isn't right.

He turns around, heading back in the direction that he came.

Marco's house is close enough to the diner to walk, and so he does, hands in the pockets of his overcoat to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air. He'll just go and check on him, just to make sure everything's alright.

The streets are oddly quiet for a weekday afternoon. The only other pedestrian he sees is Leroy, who gives him an uncharacteristic nod and almost cheerful, "Doc," when they pass on the sidewalk. First the diner was empty, and now this. He wonders where everybody is.

He is halfway there when there's an urgent clatter of heels on pavement behind him.

"Archie! Wait up!"

"Ruby?"

He stops, more than a little befuddled, while she catches up. She's bundled up in a bright red scarf and knit hat, but her legs are bare, peeking out from under the hem of her long jacket. She must be freezing.

"I saw you heading this way," she says, smiling as she draws up with him. "Thought you might like some company. It's dead today anyway."

He feels a pang of guilt watching her stand there shivering, "You didn't have to—"

"Of course I do," Ruby interrupts, knocking him playfully with her shoulder. "Marco's my best tipper, remember?"

Archie can't help but smile back at her, hopes he's not blushing, "Then thanks. I appreciate it."

"Wait, here—" he adds as she starts to continue on without him, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. He shrugs out of his long coat and drops it over her shoulders.

They're both on the tall side, and his coat comes just to her ankles. Ruby pulls it closed around herself and he hopes he's not imagining that her smile has taken on a warmer, more personal edge. "Thanks, Archie."

"Don't mention it."

Neither of them says another word until they're nearly there, walking side by side on the narrow sidewalk, him with his hands in his pockets and hers holding his coat closed. But neither do their smiles fade.

Marco lives on a forgotten little side street, shunted away from the center of town. Decades ago it must have been a nice little residential area, but time and coastal weather have taken their toll. Now the sidewalks are cracked and sprouting weeds; the white picket fences are weathered, but the lawns are still kept mowed.

Forgotten, but not neglected.

Marco's house is the last house at the end of the row, bordered on two sides by trees.

As they get closer, Archie is surprised to see Marco's truck still in the driveway. A niggling thread of worry tugs at the back of his mind as they follow the curving drive, which winds around to the back of the modest little two-story. If Marco is home, chances are he's in his garage.

The sound of Ruby's heels on the cement only remind him of how oddly quiet the street is. Everything is too still. Marco's neighborhood is full of retirees and families with long-grown children. On a weekday there are usually at least a few people out mowing the grass or working in the garden. Maybe the cold's chased them all inside too.

The sight of a light on in the garage causes Archie to release a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding.

"Marco?" Archie calls as they reach the open garage door.

"Polo," Ruby mumbles under her breath. They both giggle a little, low and relieved.

There's no answer from the garage.

"Marco, are you home?" Archie tries, a little louder.

Still no answer. He frowns.

The truck is still in the driveway, the lights are on in the garage, and as Archie sticks his head around the corner he can see that there are rags and brushes lying out on the worktable and an old bookshelf sitting out in the driveway. Everything looks like someone's only just stepped away.

"He must be inside," he says.

A stray breeze flutters the tarp covering Marco's old fishing boat in the driveway, and Ruby pulls his jacket tighter around herself.

"Hey, what's that?" he follows her pointing finger to a dark brown stain pooled on the cement floor of the garage.

"I don't know," Archie frowns. "Maybe paint?"

Ruby hovers in the open doorway as he picks his way around stray tools scattered across the garage floor. "Wood varnish," he corrects himself, reading the label on the upturned can beside the spot. He crouches, picking it up and righting it on the shelf beside him. There are bootprints in the varnish, and smudged edges that look like someone tried to clean it up.

The spot is only faintly tacky as he touches his fingers to it. Nearly dry.

From his spot on the floor, Archie spots something—Marco's cell phone, lying discarded under the worktable. The screen is cracked. He reaches for the phone and notices that beside it is another fresh stain. This one a messy splattering of rusty red, so dark it's nearly black at the center of the larger spots

Clearly outlined is the shape of a handprint.

"That's not paint," Archie says, swallowing hard.

"Oh my god..."

"My phone's in my pocket—call an ambulance. Just in case." Ruby nods as he hurries past her, headed for the back porch.

Archie takes the creaking wooden steps two at a time and pounds on the door. "Marco!"

It's probably just red paint, he tells himself, struggling to breathe normally. Old red paint.

"Marco, are you in there?"

Archie tries the handle, unsurprisingly finding it locked. He pounds on the door again, hard enough to rattle the glass paneling in the door. "Marco!"

There's a scuffling sound somewhere inside, and a thud like something heavy hitting the floor.

He stills, pressing one ear to the wood.

Another whisper of sound, fainter this time. Like something being dragged.

Behind him he hears Ruby curse. "There's no answer! It just keeps ringing! I'm calling Emma."

If Marco had some sort of accident, Sheriff Swan might not get there in time. They might be too late already.

He couldn't be too late. Couldn't fail him. Not again. (The thought repeats itself on loop in the back of his mind, and Archie is too preoccupied to wonder what it could possibly mean.)

"Ruby, let me see that coat."

She presses it, bundled, into his outstretched hand, "What are you doing?"

"Back up," he says, wrapping the coat protectively around one arm.

The first try doesn't do much of anything, but the second time Archie smashes his padded elbow into the window he feels something crack. He backs up and hits the panel again, as hard as he can.

The sound of glass shattering is far too loud in the quiet neighborhood.

Picking his way cautiously around the broken edges, Archie reaches through and unlocks the door.

Marco's normally bare kitchen is a disaster area; cabinets hanging open, their contents scattered all over the counters. The faucet in the sink has been left running.

Their shoes crunch on spilled cereal and broken glass as Archie and Ruby make their way inside. He shuts the water off. A pile of dish towels soaked in what looks suspiciously, nauseatingly, like dried blood sits next to the kitchen sink.

"Shit, Emma's not picking up either. What the hell is going on here?" Ruby hisses, slamming the phone down on the counter.

Before he can contemplate the question, something thuds from the ceiling over their heads.

"Upstairs," Archie says, "Stay here—keep trying the hospital."

He doesn't wait for her response—takes the stairs two at a time, heart pounding in his chest. Someone's moving around up here, he reminds himself; that means that whatever's happened, at least Marco's still alive.

But Marco's bedroom is empty, and so is the bathroom. That just leaves the spare room. And right on cue there's another thud and a crash from behind the closed door.

"Marco?" he calls, sticking his head around the door.

"Archie?"

It takes him a second to find Marco, squeezed into the space between the bed and the wall. His friend is white as a sheet, crouching on the floor with a baseball bat over his knees.

"Oh, thank God," Marco breathes, his voice weak. "It's only you... Thought you were that bastard... come to finish me off."

"What happened, are you okay?" Archie hurries to his side, helping him up. "We saw blood downstairs."

Marco collapses heavily onto the bed, breathing hard. He's clutching one arm tight to his chest and Archie can see that the sleeve of his shirt is stained with red.

"Here, let me see," Archie says, easing the arm out, trying to keep pressure on it as he eased back the towel Marco had used to wrap it.

The wound is deep and ragged, like something took a chunk clean out of forearm, leaving jagged strips of torn flesh around the edges. It's difficult to see the ends of it through all the blood. The sight of it makes him faintly nauseous.

"What happened?" he repeats, numbly, "You said someone did this to you?"

"Some crazy... _stronzo_... bastard. Drunk, I don't know... Just attacked me in the garage. Kept trying to... bite me." Marco chuckles weakly, his breathing labored. "I hit him in the head and ran inside. Left the damn... phone out there."

Archie hushes him and guides him to lay back on the bed. Marco's skin is pale and cool to the touch. He's not an M.D., but he knows shock and massive blood loss when he sees it. Marco needs a hospital right now, it's a miracle he's still conscious.

Who would do something like this in Storybrooke?

"You're gonna be fine. Ruby's calling an ambulance right now, we're going to get you to the hospital. You'll be fine," despite his best efforts, his voice shakes.

Marco squeezes his arm, relaxing back into the pillow. "Good man."

Suddenly there's a scream from downstairs, long and terrified.

They had left the door open. Someone had attacked Marco, and they'd left the door open—

"Ruby... I'll be right back, just try to stay awake!"

He can't stay for Marco's answer, racing out of the room and downstairs. More than fear he finds that he's angry. Archie isn't a man who's quick to anger, but what kind of man goes around attacking women and senior citizens?

Archie can hear Ruby's voice as soon as he's down the stairs. She sounds petrified.

"M-mister Booth? Are... are you okay?"

Rounding the corner he sees that a tall man in motorcycle leathers—and yes, he recognizes August Booth, he met the man once at Mary Margaret's party—has her backed into the kitchen counter. Ruby shoots him a pleading look.

"Hey!"

Booth turns and Archie's stomach does a lurch when he sees that the man's gaping mouth and shirtfront are drenched with blood. His hands as well, when he reaches one arm for Archie, are smeared with red.

What is going on here? He met Booth! He seemed like a perfectly nice guy, if a little mysterious. Has Booth gone crazy?

"Mister Booth, you need to leave," he says, as firmly as he can.

If he heard Archie, he ignores him. Booth approaches him slowly, mouth open and one arm outstretched, stumbling like a drunk—but at least that means he's turned away from Ruby. His eyes... his eyes are empty, like there's no one home inside.

And now that he looks, Archie can see that there's a jagged wound hidden under all the blood, like something had taken a good chunk out of Booth's neck...

Archie stumbles back until he hits the wall.

Up close, Booth reeks of blood and decay, his eyes a rheumy white. Before his searching hand can close on Archie's shirtfront, Ruby moves, grabbing a heavy iron frying pan from the counter and swinging it. It connects with the side of Booth's head with a deep metallic thud, sending him sprawling to the kitchen floor.

Archie can't move, his brain ground to a halt. He half expects to wake up any minute now.

Ruby plasters herself against the wall next to him, the frying pan held up defensively between them and the prone man on the floor. "I'm sorry- I didn't- I couldn't let him hurt you," she pleads, voice shrill. "I don't know what's wrong with him. He was fine last night. What the hell is going on?"

"I don't—"

Before he can string together an answer, Booth moans and stirs. Blood, black and sludgy, drips onto the linoleum as he raises his head, and Archie sees that the blow has completely dislocated Booth's jaw, one side of the mandible hanging by a few shreds of skin.

Seemingly insensate to the pain, Booth begins to drag himself across the floor towards them, urgent little moaning noises falling from the hole where his mouth used to be. His fingers scrabble on the tile, reaching for Ruby's bare leg

Ruby screams and swings the frying pan again. And again, straight down, when Booth's clutching hand persists, closing around her ankle. The third time, when his skull is caved in like a broken egg, Booth finally wheezes and falls still.

When he doesn't move again, Ruby kicks his hand off with a yelp.

Neither of them speaks for long moments. They're both breathing hard. Ruby clutches the frying pan in both fists, poised to strike again. Archie removes his glasses, hands shaking as he wipes them on his shirtfront to remove a few stray drops of blood that are splattered on the lenses.

Archie's never been a big fan of horror movies, but he's seen a few. Enough to know that what's lying on the floor in front of them belongs firmly on a television screen and not in Marco's kitchen. He's wrong, he's got to be wrong. It's not possible.

Unless... Archie nearly laughs, but he knows if he starts he's not going to stop. He recalls Henry Mills' stories about his fairytale book.

Marco—he's still upstairs. Archie dredges up the will to move, to do anything other than stare unthinkingly at what used to be Emma's friend August.

"We have to get Marco and get out of here," he says, hoarsely. "Booth—he said Booth bit him. We have to get him to the hospital."

"Right," Ruby nods, adjusting her grip on the frying pan.

They cluster close together going up the stairs, pressed side to side, both jumping at every little creak and squeak of the old steps.

"Marco?" he calls, pushing open the door to the spare room. "Come on, we're leaving."

Marco doesn't answer, and Archie sees that he hasn't moved from where he left him, lying on the bed. Marco's eyes are closed, his chest still. He's far too still.

"Marco..." Archie repeats, quietly. Part of him knows without looking that his friend is dead.

"Oh, no..." Ruby whines.

He crosses to the bed, sitting down beside him. Presses his fingers to Marco's throat, searching, but there's no pulse. His skin is cold to the touch and already greying.

Something sharp pricks in Archie's chest, making him struggle for breath. He pulls off his glasses to scrub at eyes that are suddenly too hot and wet.

Marco was gone. His best friend was gone.

He feels Ruby's hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Archie takes a deep breath and presses the heels of both hands into his eyes. They have to go—have to get the sheriff. He'd have time to grieve later...

Suddenly Ruby's hand tightens, her nails digging in.

"Archie!" she hisses urgently.

There's a low choking sound from the bed

Marco's eyes are open, and Archie can see that they're the same empty, milky white as August Booth's.

Ruby tugs at his shoulder, pulling him back from the bed just as Marco's searching hands reach for the spot where he'd been sitting.

He might owe Henry an apology.

They back out of the room slowly, and Archie is unable to look away as his previously dead best friend staggers to his feet.

"Come on... come on, let's go," Ruby whispers.

She doesn't have to tell him twice.

They take the stairs two at a time, Marco's—what used to be Marco—low moans following them. He can hear his shuffling footsteps trailing slowly behind them.

Archie pulls Ruby out the front door, not wanting to face August's corpse again, and slams it shut behind him.

The cold air and sunlight hit him like a physical blow, shocking him out of his numb reverie. Something very wrong was going on here. Whatever was wrong with August Booth might have affected other people. They had to get somewhere safe.

In the harsh afternoon light Ruby looked pale, leaning against the side of the house, the frying pan still clutched in one hand. After several seconds she doubled over, vomiting into the bushes.

He pulled her hair back with shaking fingers, trying to appear less rattled than he felt. "Are you okay?"

"No," she moaned. "Did I miss the part where we're living in a horror movie? Please tell me those weren't zombies."

"I don't know what that was," Archie swallowed. "I do know that I want to get as far away from here as possible."

She nodded, straightening up. "I have to get back to the diner. I have to make sure Granny's okay."

"Right," he says, "We can call the sheriff from there."

Ruby laughs weakly, "I don't know what Emma's going to say about this."

But as they start towards the sidewalk, they both notice that the empty street is no longer quite so empty.

A handful of figures are standing in the street. As they watch, more begin to appear out of yards and driveways. Archie recognizes the closest as one of Marco's neighbors, a nice older lady who always used to give him lemonade. Her nightdress is covered in blood, her eyes the same eerie white as Marco and August's. One by one the figures in the street seem to notice them, stumbling towards him and Ruby with outstretched arms and gaping mouths.

Archie curses.

"Run! Archie, run! Come on!" Ruby screams, pulling at his arm.

He runs. Distantly he hears the thud of Ruby's frying pan on flesh, but he can't look back. Clutching hands grab at him, pulling at his clothes, his arms, as he dodges his way through the cluster of people—things—zombies—but he doesn't stop. He doesn't look back. Keeps running until his chest is burning and the only sounds are Ruby's breathing and the dull thudding of their feet on the pavement.

What the hell is going on in Storybrooke?

_5:30pm_

"What the hell is going on here?" Regina hissed, rounding on him as soon as the doors to the lobby thudded shut behind them.

"Is this really the best time to be worried about your little charade? This world may be falling down around us and you're afraid they might remember who they are?" Gold snapped.

"We don't need another complication right now. We need to fix this. I have worked too hard—"

"Fix this? And how exactly do you propose we do that?"

"Maybe if I knew what was causing it in the first place. What is this? This is nothing I've ever seen before," she whispered. "Magic can't bring the dead back to life."

The words were fervent, desperate. Like a child holding their bedtime prayers against the growing darkness.

He laughed. Of all the reactions she's expected, that apparently wasn't it. Regina takes a startled half-step back.

"_Magic can't bring the dead back to life_," he echoed, suddenly mocking, juvenile. "What it can do, under the right circumstances, is reanimate a corpse."

"But you're the one who told me—"

"Oh, they're very much _dead_, I assure you." And really, she ought to know him better than that by now. "They may move and react, but there's nothing there—no personality, no soul, nothing inside except hunger. Hunger for the life they no longer possess."

Regina looked like she was going to be sick. "How did this happen?"

"Someone was either very desperate or very stupid," he answered quietly, suddenly fascinated by the play of dust motes in the fine golden light peeking through the boarded windows. "It only takes one, you see. It spreads with a bite or a scratch, growing until everyone they come into contact with is dead. Entire worlds lost."

They were both silent for a long moment.

"How do we stop it?"

Gold breathed a laugh. "Oh, there's only one way to stop this. Magic."

"What?"

"Magic brought them back and magic can stop them."

"Well that helps!" she snapped, her voice raising.

They both froze as something outside shuffled by the boarded up windows, blotting out the thin light that penetrated the gaps in the boards and casting a shadow over them both.

"Quiet, dearie. Don't want to attract attention," he murmured, eyes fixed on the window until the shadow passed.

Regina started to pace. Her boots left a trail in the dusty library floor. "Did you or did you not just say there was no magic in this world?" she continued, in a hush.

"Oh, there isn't. Yet." He so hated to give the answer away early, but he didn't have the energy for their usual games today. Regina's eyes followed him as Gold crossed to the elaborate decoration that covered the back wall. Another apple tree. How original.

"What exactly am I supposed to do? Pop back home and pick some up?"

"There's no need for that," he mustered a ghost of a smile, tracing one finger along the wrought-silver branches. "I brought some with me."


End file.
